


Fishtail

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Ficlet, Hair Kink, M/M, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 02:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5988358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin sees Legolas’ hair being styled and knows he could do <i>better</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fishtail

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Thorin yearns to braid Legolas' s hair and then fantasies about having his way with him” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25800450#t25800450).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Thorin could, perhaps, be flattered that Thranduil evidently trusts Thorin enough to allow him free roam of the castle—none of Thorin’s private delegation are trailed, discretely or otherwise, by the Elven guards that always used to greet them. Instead, Thorin finds himself bitter at the slight—he should still be considered a threat—he could still deal damage—even with only half a dozen dwarves in a realm full of elves, Thorin and his kin could take Thranduil down if he really wanted to. He won’t, of course, but he _could_.

Now the inhabitants of the Woodland Realm pay Thorin little notice as he wanders about between meetings, memorizing corridors and sampling wine. It’s partially strategic information—it always pays to know the enemy’s halls—and also that he prefers to keep as far away from Thranduil as possible whenever he can. That means avoiding the council chambers, the master suite, and the throne room. Instead, he makes his way out onto a balcony that wraps around the Mirkwood palace, eyeing up any “hidden” archers he finds and making note of the defenses. He plans, and hopes, to be on at least peaceful terms with Thranduil for some time, but it never hurts to be prepared.

He’s halfway down the balcony, which curves in a semi-circle towards another doorway, palace walls on one side and an elaborate wooden railing on the other, when he spots company. At the end, on a bench just before the doorway, Prince Legolas is perched, facing out into the forest but looking down into a book. His slender legs are crossed, arms folded in his lap, golden-white hair swaying gently in the breeze. A servant sits behind him, dutifully weaving a tiny braid behind Legolas’ pointed ear. 

It’s hardly the first time Thorin’s seen Thranduil’s young heir—or at least, young by Elven standards—but it is the first time Thorin’s seen him in thin, casual clothes, as opposed to glistening armour. There’s no bow, quiver, or even knives strung to him, and he does nothing to acknowledge Thorin’s presence. Perhaps he’s truly lost in his book. The midday sun washes beautifully over him, highlighting his creamy skin, handsome face and elegant body. It forces Thorin, once again, to accept just how irrefutably _beautiful_ elves can be. It’s something Thorin would never admit to anyone aloud, but Legolas, for all his pompous connections, is a truly stunning creature.

And he becomes even more so with his hair adorned properly. The attendant works with thin, nimble fingers, and the braid he forms is precise, but it’s nothing to the full, rich decoration of dwarves. If they were in Erebor, if it were Thranduil who’d brought his delegation to Thorin, Legolas could have _true_ artists fixing his hair. Thorin, naturally, is at a master at it himself. He seldom has the time to give himself more than quick, cursory embellishment, but during drawn-out negations such as this, he could make time to show his skill. He could draw Legolas aside, sit him down, thrust thick, talented fingers into his lustrous hair and twist the golden locks into an elaborate braid from the base of his skull to the ends of his lengthy mane. Thorin could bring accessories, could weave in the finest lace or strips of silk or even embed little gems into each bunch, forcing Legolas’ hair to truly _shine_. The tiny things that Legolas often wears on either side of his head are pretty, but they’re small, and Thorin could give him so much _more_.

Thorin could brush his eager hands through Legolas’ wondrous hair, and the more he thinks of it, the more he _wants_ it, wants to thrust his fingers inside and twist, curl, feel the supple waves slip over his skin. He wants to brand his mark onto Legolas’ body, wants to add Dwarven clips and show how truly breathtaking an Elven prince can be with proper care, with a true master at work on them. Thorin would spare nothing for this art: he’d yank Legolas’ hair into submission, pull it taut and tight, force gasps from Legolas’ delicate lips as he fashioned _perfection_. It would be immaculate. There wouldn’t be a single strand out of place, a single ripple, it would be even from base to tip, and Thorin would make sure Legolas _felt_ every move. Perhaps Thorin would even end his creation in a knot so tight that none could undo it, and Legolas would have to take a sword to his own locks if he ever wished to be free of Thorin’s brand. 

But there would be more fun than just the braid itself. Thorin’s excellent with his hands, and it would be a precursor: foreplay, as it is for dwarves, irresistible even to an elf. The second he finished, he’d wrap the braid firmly around his hand like a leash and tug Legolas forward, drag him by it to the nearest bed—preferably Thorin’s in Erebor, although the prince’s own chambers here would do nicely. Then every time Legolas slipped back beneath his covers, he’d remember Thorin’s hands in his hair, holding him down. 

Thorin would relinquish that touch only when necessarily—only once he needed to rip the rest of Legolas’ coverings away—tear off his tunic and trousers and spread his luscious thighs wide—and Thorin would learn if elves were truly as hairless everywhere else as they seemed. He’d eye the pretty sight between Legolas’ legs, likely pink and dribbling for him, whether flushed folds or a hardened shaft or something else, he doesn’t know and isn’t picky—Thorin wonders more if it would be bare, peach skin or golden curls foreshadowing the prize. Then Thorin imagines finding a tight hole to sheath his own cock in, of burying himself deep in Legolas’ enchanting body and feeling the rush of heat, of the squelch of their mingling juices, of hearing Legolas’ ragged breaths. Thorin would return his attentions to Legolas’ best feature and play with Legolas’ hair. He’d thrust into Legolas’ pliant thighs and rearrange all the golden locks around them into the picture of beauty, of debauchery, and Thorin would use that velvety veil like reins and fuck Thranduil’s precious heir mercilessly into the mattress. 

Legolas would cry out, he thinks, unused to the strength of dwarves. Legolas’ long limbs would wrap around him, and Legolas would _scream_ Thorin’s name, beg and plead for more of Thorin’s marks—scratched bruises or teeth marks or braids to wear home—and Thorin would consider being benevolent, would dole out promises based on the subservience of his new lover. The constant abuse of Legolas’ hair would leave prickling tears in the corners of Legolas’ eyes, but he would moan with devotion that he _loved it_ , for no one could use it so well as Thorin. 

Thorin’s still trapped in his fantasy when Legolas finally glances up from his book, eyes wandering across the way to pierce Thorin’s. Thorin’s heart nearly stops, his daydream halting, the image of a fucked-raw Legolas hazily evaporating from his mind. He can feel his cheeks turning scarlet, but it’s more from sheer, ferocious _lust_ than embarrassment. He holds Legolas’ gaze, breathing hard, for a few difficult seconds.

Then he abruptly turns and hurries for the far door, leaving the prince and a wholly inadequate attendant to their work.


End file.
